


Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

by malikyiaue



Category: Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malikyiaue/pseuds/malikyiaue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the Rebels are no longer Rebels?  </p><p>Post-Victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

**Author's Note:**

> Written partially for lulu-kitty

“Fucking cocks.” 

Tent poles went flying from his hands, and hit the ground with a loud clattering sound that echoed through out the camp. 

It was a bit of a stretch to call their little resting spot a camp. There were a few tents already up around them, where people huddled in small groups to keep out the cold of the mountain air and the chill of grief that settled into everyone's limbs. It was sparsely populated. A shadow of how their numbers stood even days ago, and the faces around them told stories of unspoken loss. The tents hardly looked sturdy; a good wind might see them blown over, a careless sort of afterthought by a people too tired to sleep. A few fires were beginning to flicker around them, and though there was a comfort in the relative darkness around them – Agron had cautioned, when they stopped, against lighting too many fires, or letting any grow too large, for fear that they would serve as a beacon if any Romans still sought them out – and yet a grief in how few they were. 

They were all destitute. Wracked with grief and loss and exhaustion from running, and disheartened by Spartacus's loss. And Agron was somehow supposed to lead them. 

It was not only that his hands faltered even in holding still the poles so that Nasir might put together their tent that drove Agron to temper, but they played no small part in it. He was not Spartacus. He was not a man whose words could light a flame in every man's heart. He was not a brilliant strategist, nor did he ever want to be a leader. He was a man who constantly let down those around him, and yet here he stood – who could not even grip sword, or fix a place for his own head. And yet he was to be a leader to these people. They looked to him for answers, for reason. 

The feelings that overwhelmed him as he looked around in the echoing quiet after his outburst were not ones he had a name for. They were a sense of loss so profound that he wasn't sure there was anything left inside himself but absence, and a hope that buoyed his heart to heights beyond imagining. 

“Agron...” 

Nasir's voice was soft. Both of their eyes were still rimmed red and bloodshot from the tears that fell unabashedly at Spartacus's parting, and Nasir peaked at him through the poles he himself still held, his brow furrowed together and upwards in the middle. An expression of heartbreak written clearly across his face. His words were stuck in his throat though. What did you say in moments like this? Nasir had spent too many years learning to be silent to know what to say to offer Agron comfort. 

He didn't have time to figure it out. 

A moment later, Agron felt soft hand resting on his shoulder. It had been years since he felt a touch so soft – skin uncalloused by holding a weapon. It reminded him for one moment of another life, when he'd held his sister in his lap as he told her stories; he could almost hear Duro's voice singing beside him. He could smell the cooked meat in the fire, and feel the warmth of home. It lasted only a moment, but it was intense; a vision brought on by exhaustion. 

“Let me lend aid. In return for aid once given me.” 

It was Laeta's voice that rang behind him, not Gisila's. 

He turned his head to the side, his chin held as high as he could manage with the weight that now bore down on him, and looked at her for a moment. There had not been any affection lost between them in the days before he'd left with Crixus, and they had not often shared words since. The look he gave her was almost suspicious, and was met with a cock of her own head and raised brows. 

“Aid given on Spartacus's behalf.” His tone was flat though; he did not have enough emotions to spare on anger with her, or even his own brand of snark at the moment. 

“And yet without his orders. It was your hands that moved to see me covered.” Laeta did not flinch, but her tone was softer. Perhaps a part of her felt that she had more right to grieve, as she had shared Spartacus's bed, and tender touches, but she had not known the man nearly as long, or as intensely as Agron had. Nor did this task rely on an absence of grief, but instead on useful hands. A thing she yet had. 

It was Nasir who spoke up, while Agron weighed taking help from anyone he considered a Roman. “Offer much appreciated.” And he gave permission with a gesture of his head towards the dropped poles, and a forced, tense smile that had nothing to do with his feelings towards Laeta. Genuine smiles were not to be had. Not tonight. 

She nodded, reaching down for the poles, and even Agron couldn't manage a curse of irritation. Instead he just stood and watched as they worked in silence. 

The silence wrapped around them all, curling and twisting with them like a soft breeze, tangling itself into every strand of Nasir's hair, and filling in the spaces between Laeta's fingers. Agron breathed it in, and he exhaled it. There were no words to fill the void. The sounds of the ropes tightening around wood seemed to be entirely devoured by it, there one moment, gone the next. Even the whispers that passed between people as they sat around their little fires died out almost as quickly as they started. 

They were free. 

And yet joy seemed like the most disrespectful feeling in the world.

They were free. 

But at what cost? 

Agron's eyes hit the ground, studying the branches and leaves that cracked underfoot when they walked and provided kindling for their fires. And yet he thought nothing. Even thinking too much seemed sacrilegious. Agron normally thrived on sacrilege, but normally it wasn't Spartacus's memory that he would be disrespecting. It was the name of some distant god, who was supposed to have power over life or death, who'd let his brother – brothers – die. It was some omnipotent being, not a good man, who sacrificed himself so that others might live. 

Tears again stung at the corners of his eyes, while Nasir gave Laeta quiet instruction, the words hushed and soft and in a tongue that Agron wanted not to understand. The two of them stole glances at Agron before he turned and walked away from him, and when their eyes met again, it was with understanding.

Nasir didn't know how she understood, and Laeta would not tell him that it was because she had seen the look on the faces of her own slaves when her husband doled out punishment, or sold their families away from them. She would not tell him of how she'd once turned a blind eye to such suffering. She would not tell him that there had been a point that she had seen slaves as pets – for as much as she'd advocated for humane treatment, she had not felt the true weight of slavery until she herself was cast into it. And Nasir would not ask. He knew too well that often secrets of the heart were best left undisturbed. The brightest of things could stem from the darkest places. 

He did not question her generosity. Instead he just reached a hand out to rest on her wrist, adjusting her hold to give it a bit more strength, without any further words. His own hands had once felt as hers did. His skin had once been as soft – a lifetime ago. The callouses on his palms he wore now with pride. Even more so, now that Agron would rely on his strength. 

In the darkness, he felt a moment of bloom in his chest.

What he had now was beyond anything he could have imagined. Their roles were entirely reversed. It was now Agron who's brains and thoughts must guide them all, and Nasir's hands that must see blood and battle should they meet it, and yet there was nothing diminished between them. The definition of acceptance. 

His eyes strayed back just in time to see Agron, eyes closed and brow furrowed, turn from the two of them. 

Despite the hurt written so clearly on his lover's face, he held no doubts that they would survive this. 

Agron was not nearly so sure. 

But when he turned from Laeta and Nasir, his eyes fell to a small shape on the far edge. Two shapes, he made out after a moment's examination, huddled together against the world, their arms wrapped around each other. 

A new surge of guilt washed over him then, and he walked with purpose over to them. The children, who had stayed at his side as they'd walked, forgotten in the madness of setting up camp and getting everything organized. How could he have done that? Every footstep he made towards them echoed with the name of someone else he'd left behind in madness. Duro. Crixus. Oenomeus. Spartacus. Their names weighed on his shoulders, until he thought the young man, cuddled under his sister's arm might yet be taller than him. He swallowed heavily as he stood before them. 

What sort of leader was he? 

“Come.” He invited, gesturing with his head towards the tent that Nasir and Laeta were currently assembling. “Share tent and meal with Nasir and I.” 

It was only a second's pause before the children reacted, and yet to Agron it stretched out before him like an eternity. Why should they trust him? He heard every beat of his heart in his ears, and felt his mouth drying out. The Latin felt awkward on his tongue, as it had when they'd first been captured and Duro spent the nights of their trip quietly teaching him words and sounds in whispers with their foreheads pressed together in the darkness. 

“You would have us?” 

It was the girl who spoke up first. Her hand rested on her brother's shoulder, the knuckles white, and her jaw jutted forward in a look that was impossible to mistake. She would not allow her brother to come to harm. He wanted to bend down. To pull her close and to reassure her that such dangers were passed and they would never have to worry about Romans or anything, but after so many promises made and so many lives lost, his lips and tongue would not form the words. Instead he just nodded. 

“We would be made glad to.” 

His knees bent, until one rested on the forest floor, and he was as close as he could be to eye level with the two of them. It was his turn for his own brows to furrow, and he reached up to brush the ball of his thumb against a dried tear stain on the cheek of the young boy, who's bright blue eyes reminded him of Spartacus himself. It was an awkward movement; his fingers didn't curl right, and the boy's nose pressed sideways against the dirty bandages wrapped around his palm, covering it with snot and slime.  
A moment later, Agron was on his back. 

The boy had thrown himself at Agron, and knocked over his precarious and unsuspecting balance, until he'd fallen backwards, tiny, wiry arms wrapped around his neck in a vice grip and the boy's face buried into the crook of his neck. There was a pause, where he tried to realize what was happening. It had been so long since he'd been embraced with such exuberance. But then Agron's arms slid around the boy's back, to hold him close. 

And yet it did not last long. It couldn't. 

“We will not be able to go to the tent with you atop me.” He told the boy, tilting his head until his chin doubled up on itself in an effort to see his face. It was useless for that moment, but in the next the boy was off of him and grabbing at his sister's hand once again. As Agron sat himself back up, it struck him that the boy was too old for such clinginess, but then how did you measure what the appropriate response was right now? 

He pulled his legs to himself, and felt the tug in his calves as he stood to his feet without pressing his hands on the ground, a movement that wasn't impossible, but was not exactly easy either. On another day, it might have been. But today every muscle ached in a way he had not previously known – as if his mixed emotions had wormed their way through the fibers of his very being, manifesting themselves physically until movement cramped his legs. There was nothing in his countenance to give this away; he kept his face still, and bore it with as few complaints as he bore all pain, his eyes falling to the children when he was once again standing. 

“What are you called?” 

“I am Atellus.” The boy announced, suddenly seeming a lot braver than he had just a few moments ago, though his hand was still clinging tightly to his sister's own. “And this is Julia. But you don't have to tell us who you are. We know who you are.” There was something in his voice that Agron recognized. It hung as an undertone on every word, but it hit him like a punch in the gut when the boy – Atellus – said his name. Pride. 

Not pride in himself, no. Atellus didn't seem like he had too much of that, with the way he clung to his sister, but the same sort of pride that Duro'd once used when he announced that Agron could easily best Spartacus. 

He felt his voice catch in the back of his throat, and he reached down to rest his hand on the back of Julia's head, forcing a smile that was weaker than his smiles normally were. 

Agron was the sort of being who felt everything in extremes. His love was unwavering, his happiness radiating, and his anger explosive. It was almost like his body didn't know what to do with the mix of emotions he currently felt; his chest didn't swell with happiness, but nor did his shoulders hunch in anger. Though he walked with confidence as he led the children over to the tent that Nasir and Laeta were finishing, his hand on Julia's head trembled and his breath caught in his throat every few steps. 

“Who am I?” He asked, because it was suddenly easier to talk than to swallow past the lump in his throat. Or was it his throat? Maybe it was a pressure in his chest, like what he'd felt when he hung upon the cross, with Romans at his feet. He'd spat upon them then. Now he wasn't sure he could manage to spit at all. 

“You are Agron-From-The-Lands-East-of-The-Rhine!” There was a happiness in Atellus's voice that shouldn't have been there, and Julia elbowed him in the ribs for it. It didn't serve to discourage him; he only gave his sister an irritated look. “You are Spartacus's general. And now you will lead us to freedom.” 

“Indeed.” 

It was the only answer Agron could manage in the entire walk back over to their tent. His hand remained atop Julia's head, and when he approached Nasir looked up at him. Neither of them said a word; they didn't need to. Their eyes met, and Nasir's gaze flicked down towards the children, and then back up to Agron's own. Agron's brows raised for a moment, and then pulled together in the middle, until there was no way Nasir could have offered protest if he'd wanted to. 

He didn't want to. 

Instead, he just returned to his work with Laeta, while Agron bent down and explained to the children what size sticks they needed to build a fire, and sent them off in search of them, while he cleaned off a a spot in front of their tent. He pushed debris away with his hands, his fingers stiff and tired from holding onto his sword-shield in battle, and doing things that he shouldn't. He dug out a hole with his feet and toes, ignoring the irritation of dirt inside his sandals in favor of creating a safe space for the fire. Nasir watched all of this with the sort of gaze that might've been missed – the same one he'd employed so often when he was still Tiberius, and sought only to advance himself how he could within the role of slave. He didn't want Agron to know he watched; it would only hurt his lover's pride to know how closely Nasir kept guard. And yet it made his heart swell with pride to see how well Agron did. Even without the use of his hands, he refused to be stopped. There might've been a soft, barely audible string of curses escaping him when he hit a tree root, and a louder curse when his toe hit a rock, but he did not give up. 

And that was exactly the sort of man who would lead them to freedom. 

A smile curved across his lips, hidden largely by the fabric of the tent, but Laeta could not help but see it as she tied the last string into place, and she could not help but feel a mixture off jealousy of what they had, and grief for the love that she'd lost – or the love she'd never had. She did not say anything in that regard though, and instead just watched Nasir for a moment, and then nodded her head. “Just give voice if more aid is needed.” She instructed more than she meant to, her tone more authoritative than it should have been. 

In the vacuum created by Spartacus's loss, she felt her older, Domina tenancies slipping back before she could catch herself, and the statement was followed by her quickly looking to the ground and walking away, her lower lip pulled between her teeth for one brief moment, as if that would erase the way she'd just spoken. 

It was just lucky that Nasir was the only one who heard her, and was less likely to judge. He understood that everyone was reeling - that everyone was desperately trying to redefine their place in this world of theirs with Spartacus's loss. He understood her pride, and the fact that she'd never held a place among the vast rebel army as some of them might, and had always held some sort of elevated position, even when she was still a Roman. Such things were difficult to erase from one's mind. He forgave her, though he kept a watchful eye on her as she walked away, lingering still for a few long moments before turning to join his lover by what would be their fire. 

“First, we have to make a house. The fire must have somewhere to live – no. Julia, you can't just throw them on like that, or the walls of the house will crush the fire.” Agron was explaining, his voice soft and almost sing-song-ish. 

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that while Agron largely stood as overseer while Nasir did the training for the rebels, that Agron had spent years teaching his siblings things. From how to build a fire, to how to hunt. Many of the stories Nasir knew, though he was sure there were still more for him to learn. And he would learn. He would learn something new of Agron's family, until they reached Germania and the lands that had once belonged to them. He wished to greet Agron's kin as his own, with warm knowledge from the stories of them. Right now, though, he could see it clearly. Or perhaps he saw a man Agron could have been. Perhaps he saw a man with children, teaching them how to keep themselves warm at night, through the harsh winters he'd heard so much about. 

(“It baffles mind, how Crixus and Spartacus neglect clothing in the face of looming winter.” “Why would they need more? They are suitably dressed.” “Perhaps for Rome. But we move ever northward. Soon we will find ourselves battling cold more than Romans.” He had not been entirely wrong, and Nasir had been grateful for Agron's preparedness for cold and willingness to share his clothing.) 

A part of him knew, though, that that would have never been Agron's life. Agron would never have settled down with a wife; he would have married himself to battle if he did not find a lover – and it did no good to dwell on what might've beens. Instead, he moved over, sliding his hand over Agron's shoulder to soak in the warmth of his skin under the cloth he wore, and then settled himself beside him, his knees just shy of the fire pit and just watching. Agron had lost much; he would not take this moment from him. 

“There. Now add some sticks. No, no.” Atellus had somehow wrangled a log nearly as large as himself. It was dead and dry, and would make the perfect wood if they were trying to construct a funeral pyre instead of the small fire for cooking and warmth they tried for. “Smaller sticks. That one's impressive, but we're not trying to burn down the forest.” Fucking idiot. He didn't say it, and the words felt like they belonged to another lifetime: a curse and insult, said with as endearing a tone as one might call someone beloved. 

It took them another half hour to get the fire successfully built. Agron did not lend aid. Not physically, but gave instruction. He taught the children how to make a fire on their own. There might come a day when he would not be here, when Nasir would not be here; they needed such a skill. But he was endlessly patient. More so than most people who'd known him would think him capable of being, but he did not falter. At one point, Nasir had taken an actual seat upon the ground, and his head now rested in one hand, his elbow on Agron's knee and his eyes closed until he heard a triumphant sort of noise from Julia that pulled him out of something akin to sleep. 

Or maybe it was sleep. 

He wasn't sure. 

They ate in silence, and prepared their beds in silence. Or as much silence as could be expected. Atellus and Julia fought over the covers, and who got what until Nasir pulled an extra blanket from their own bed and tucked it securely around Julia, and then used the one they had to tuck around Atellus, until they were both wrapped so tightly and snugly that moving itself seemed difficult. 

“Hey! You trapped me.” Atellus groaned, and Julia tried to kick him, which didn't work at all. 

“Don't be rude, Atellus!” She ordered, her voice hushed and quiet as she looked over at her brother. 

“Then you will be warm, and you won't share harsh words with your sister.” Nasir's voice was calm and soothing, and it was Agron's turn to watch as his lover stepped in and took over dealing with the two children who were lost among their ranks. He watched as Nasir scolded Julia for being so bossy, and as he hushed Atellus with a gentle hand pushing back through his hair to smooth it and put him at ease. He saw a man who'd been trained to care for others. Or perhaps a man who'd been trained to take up rank, and had chosen to take care of those underneath him on his own. He saw Nasir's gentleness, something that had nearly been lost to them in this battle for their freedom, and his jaw clenched under his skin in another nameless emotion. 

And then Nasir began to speak to them. He sat himself in between the two children, with a head at the side of either hip, and spoke in soft latin, telling stories that he only halfway remembered. He told them first of Hercules, who was chased across the earth, and made to fight so many battles before he was finally made a god. They fell asleep sometime during the tale of Hercules versus the Nemean Lion, barely making it through much of the story at all before the day took it's toll. Perhaps they had heard the story before; they were still children, and already slaves. Agron had not; he had listened entranced by the sound of Nasir's voice, and the musical quality of his tale. His voice found natural rhythms, and Agron couldn't help but imagine the sound of his own stories, his own tales coming out of Nasir's mouth. Would his tongue find the same pauses that his own people held for generations? Would they one day sing together, the stories of his homeland? 

He was still wide awake when Nasir slid into the bed beside him, pressing against him from shoulder to calf and his arm sliding over Agron's stomach. 

That was all it took. The familiar warmth of Nasir pressed against him, and the smell of their blankets around them, and Agron felt once again at home and relaxed. The worries of the day did not fade away. Loss was not erased, and the worry lines in his brow didn't disappear, but everything seemed more bearable with Nasir tucked against his side, and his breathing began to even out. It slowed as Nasir pressed a kiss to his neck, just below his jawline, and paused when he pressed his own lips to Nasir's forehead. But they did not have the time or energy for any more intimate touches. It was enough: this now. To be this close. To have each other remain still in their arms, with the main threat of Rome somehow behind them. 

“Tonight, we fall asleep free men.” 

“And wake with Rome's influence but a memory.”


End file.
